and disappointments of these past Romans, whose souls now resided in the shades, all their achievements and failures were now just part of the sum total of their city’s glory. They had all had their time, and he hoped that they had made the most of it because there was no coming back from that dark land once they had been ferried across the Styx. He vowed to himself that before he made that same journey he would do his utmost to leave the city that he was about to enter for the first time greater, in some small way, for him having been there.
Coming out of his reverie he realised that he’d got far ahead of his party and decided to wait for them there, amongst the tombs. He dismounted and tied his horse to a small tree and, pulling his cloak around his shoulders, sat down to wait, idly watching the passing traffic. After a short while a wagon pulled off the road near him and disgorged a family with its house slaves. The slaves immediately started to set up a table and stools in front of a small, new-looking tomb. The paterfamilias poured a libation and said a prayer, and then the family sat down and were served a picnic meal which they seemed to share with the occupant of the tomb by laying food and drink upon it. Vespasian watched this curious ritual as the family ate and drank with their deceased relative, talking to him as if he was still alive, seemingly oblivious to the traffic rumbling by on the road only a few feet away. Even death, it seemed, did not stop honour being shown to a man, if in life he had earned it in the service of his family and Rome.
The meal was coming to an end when he heard his brother’s voice bellowing at him. ‘What do you think you’re doing, you little shit, sitting by the side of the road without a care in the world? Do you think you’re a match for the cut-throats and worse that live amongst these tombs?’ Sabinus jumped off his horse and kicked his brother hard on the thigh. ‘You’ve had our mother half crazy with worry running off like that.’
Titus pulled up next to them. ‘What in Hades are you up to, Vespasian? Don’t you realise how dangerous it is travelling alone on these roads, even though they’re crowded? Which one of these travellers is going to stop and come to the aid of a young lad being mugged, eh? Only the very stupid, that’s who, and what good are they? No one in their right mind is going to risk themselves for the likes of you, if they even noticed you being hauled off behind a tomb.’
‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Vespasian said, rubbing his bruised leg as he hobbled to his feet. ‘I didn’t think – Sabinus just told me-’
‘Get back on your horse and go and apologise to your mother,’ his father snapped.
Vespasian mounted up and did as he was told, but he could not stop thinking about the dead man in the tomb. Would he, Vespasian, ever earn such honour?
The road grew even busier as it approached the junction with the Via Nomentana less than half a mile from the Porta Collina, the gate through which they would enter the city. The tombs that still lined the way had become shantytowns housing the dispossessed dregs of the urban poor who could find no affordable accommodation within the city itself. The stench of their unsanitary dwellings, made of bits of wood covered by strips of sackcloth, permeated an atmosphere already thick with the smoke from their cooking fires to make breathing an unpleasant but necessary chore.
The city walls were now only a few hundred paces away. Their scale was awe-inspiring: solid mountains of brick dominating the skyline. To the north of the city, two miles to his right, he could see the graceful arches of the newly built Aqua Virgo, sixty feet high, as it entered the Campus Martius at the end of its twenty-three-mile journey ferrying sweet water from a spring that, legend had it, was shown to thirsty, victorious Roman soldiers by a young maid after some long-forgotten battle.
The noise of the crowd coupled with the grating of the unsprung iron-shod wheels of countless carts and wagons pulled by baying beasts of burden rose to a crescendo as the two roads, quite literally, collided. Vespasian surveyed the chaos of the free-for-all as vehicles, humans and animals pushed and shoved in all directions trying to get off one road and on to the other. No one was willing to give way, for to do so would mean more delay and, no doubt, a savage push from the vehicle behind.
The family’s ex-legionary guards were now leading the way, beating a path through the crowd with sturdy poles as they inched their way on to the Via Nomentana. Once they had negotiated a passage on to the new road progress became easier as to their left and right the trade wagons and carts, which were not allowed into the city during the day, pulled off the road to wait for the sun to set. Once night had fallen they would continue their journeys to their final destinations, ensuring, with the rumble of their wheels and the cries of their drivers, that peace would never come to the streets and lanes of Rome at any time of the day or night.
Titus had just secured the services of a litter for Vespasia to transfer into, close to the Porta Collina, when from behind them came the deep boom of a horn and shouting so loud that it could be heard over the surrounding din. Looking back over his shoulder Vespasian could see the dyed-red horsehair-plumed helmets of a turma of cavalry, a troop of thirty men, wading through the crowd.
‘We’d better wait for them to pass,’ Titus said. ‘They look to be Praetorian Guard cavalry and they’re not very polite, especially if they’re escorting someone important.’
They cleared the road as the turma approached, four abreast. Their white, high-stepping stallions, eyes rolling and mouths frothing at the bits, forced their way through the crowd, stopping for no one. Any fool unlucky enough to come too close was beaten aside by their riders with the flats of their swords or the butts of their spears.
‘Make way, make way, imperial business, make way,’ their decurion shouted. The trumpeter gave another blast on his horn. The guards’ bronze breastplates and helmets inlaid with silver sparkled in the sunlight; red cloaks edged with gold billowed out behind them; everything about them spoke of the wealth and power of the imperial family that it was their duty to guard. They kept their formation with a rigid discipline, their muscular thighs and calves gripping the sweating flanks of their mounts, steering them in a straight line down the centre of the road. In the middle of the troop travelled an ornately carved wood and ivory litter whose occupants were enclosed by lavish maroon curtains decorated with astrological signs embroidered in gold and silver thread. From each corner protruded a pole that was supported at waist height by three massive Negro slaves marching in step, double time, in such a skilful manner that the litter appeared to glide along without so much as a jolt to disturb its precious cargo. The smoothness with which they carried the litter could only have been learnt by years of practice under the watchful eyes of overseers keen to punish any mistake with a liberal use of the whip.
Vespasian watched the imperial cortege scythe its way down the Via Nomentana. ‘Who do you think is in that, Father, the Emperor?’
‘No, I doubt it. When he’s not in Rome Tiberius spends more and more of his time down south and would never enter the city from this direction. That must be someone in the imperial household with estates up in the hills to the east,’ Titus replied as the litter drew level with them.
Just then a rabid dog, foam oozing from its jaws, startled by the booming horn and the loud clatter of the horses, leapt out from under a cart close to Vespasian and launched itself at the lead group of Negroes. It sank its teeth into the left thigh of the man nearest the litter. He went down screaming, desperately trying to tear the maddened beast off him. His comrades stopped abruptly, causing their burden to sway from side to side. Guards immediately encircled the immobile litter, spears pointing out towards the onlooking crowd as their decurion raced back to assess the situation. He took one look at the unfortunate slave wrestling with the mad dog and with two quick thrusts of his spear put both out of their misery. He shouted a swift order and the guards re-formed their marching order and the column prepared to move forward.
Before it did the curtains of the litter opened slightly and a young girl looked out. Vespasian held his breath; he had never seen such beauty. Her thick black hair, which contrasted perfectly with her ivory skin, fell in ringlets that rested on her slender shoulders. Jewels hung from her ears and around her throat. Her lips, full and painted dark pink, sat perfectly between a delicately pointed nose and a firm, proud chin. But it was her eyes, two shining blue stars, that held him transfixed as they rested on his, for a few quickening heartbeats, before she withdrew back inside and the litter began to move forward again.
A loud snort brought him back to reality.
‘Look at that, Father, your youngest son sitting there with his mouth flapping open like some carp just landed in a fisherman’s net,’ Sabinus roared. ‘I think the poor little sod has just caught a shot from Cupid. I’d bet he’d give his right hand to know who she is. Not that it would help much, he’s way below her league.’
Vespasian reddened as his father joined in the laughter. ‘That, my boy, was the most vacant that I’ve ever seen you look. I don’t suppose you liked her, did you?’ Still chortling, he turned to order their guards to lead off.
Vespasian was left staring dumbstruck at the dead dog whose jaws were still locked on to the black slave’s
